At the far crest of one of the hills, jagged shapes began to rise beneath her uncertain strokes. The lines were crooked at first, but soon gathered into something unmistakable: a towering black castle perched upon the summit like a wound in the landscape.
Its spires clawed upward into the painted sky, swallowing the pale silver light she had laid there before.
Lucrezia's breath slowed as she worked the brush, moving with a strange urgency she did not quite understand. And at every stroke, the castle grew darker and much colder.
She wanted to stop, yet at the same time, Lucrezia was suspended between fascination and unease.
Her hand shifted toward the left side of the hill, and with careful strokes of charcoal-black paint, she shaped the figure of a man standing alone at the edge of the slope. The figure was small compared to the towering fortress behind him, yet something was commanding in the way he stood.
